


Every Shining Moment

by kyrilu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Divination, Extra Treat, M/M, Pre-Canon, Prophecy, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-04 16:36:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12172686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: “Here are three stories,” he says, holding up his fingers. “Which one is the prophecy?”





	Every Shining Moment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lah_mrh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lah_mrh/gifts).



Gellert tells him that he used to play this game at Durmstrang.

“Here are three stories,” he says, holding up his fingers. “Which one is the prophecy?”

Albus wants to laugh at the dramatics of it all. Here they are, two teenagers stretched out on a field of grass underneath the stars, and Gellert is staring intently at the sky as if it will tell him everything.

But Albus is, despite himself, captivated. There is a logic to Gellert’s Divination abilities. He takes the stars and his dreams and his visions, and plays together with mathematical probabilities.

There is a neat order to this. The sense that you have the future right there in your palms, easily manipulated by a twist of fate or choice.

“Tell me,” Albus says.

 

* * *

 

**1.**

_Once upon a time_ , there was a boy named Albus Dumbledore.

(“Me, Gellert?”

“Yes, you,” Gellert says, prodding Albus on the shoulder. “What else should I foretell? The fate of your brother’s goats?”

“Well, why not? Perhaps Snowy’s milk holds the secret of immortality or Billy’s coat will one day become the Minister of Magic’s rug.”

“Shhh, Albus. Listen.”)

Albus was a brilliant wizard who was a genius in nearly every magical field. After he left Hogwarts, he met the equally brilliant, if not more brilliant, Gellert Grindelwald - (“you are unbelievable”) - but they eventually parted ways.

Gellert continued his worldwide search for the Deathly Hallows. Albus abandoned the quest because of his family.

So, his goat-loving idiot of a brother went back to Hogwarts for schooling. Albus found himself caring for Ariana, restless.

Then, impulsively, Albus took Ariana with him to Paris. You see, the alchemist Nicolas Flamel has a long-standing offer for an apprenticeship, and Albus wanted to go before it was too late...

 

* * *

 

The laboratory was full of bubbling cauldrons and stills. Colored smoke permeated the air, and the furnaces were alight with leaping fire.

In the center of the maelstrom was Nicolas Flamel. He had flaming red hair - not like the auburn like Albus’, but a blazing ginger, and he wore a white coat that made him look like a Muggle doctor rather than a wizard.

“Monsieur Flamel,” Albus said, sweeping a bow, his checker-colored robe billowing at the gesture. “I assume you received my owl? I’m Albus Dumbledore.”

Nicolas nodded. “I did. I’m very honored to meet you. Not many young people these days have the sense to connect transfiguration and transmutation theory, especially when it comes to more theoretical concepts like _pneuma._ ”

He spoke in slightly accented English, and he regarded Albus with an approving gaze. Albus couldn’t help smiling at the praise.

Nicolas noticed Ariana. “This is your sister, isn’t she? Hello, Mademoiselle Ariana.”

Ariana had been pacing the room, lost in the haze of colored smoke. Hearing her name, she gave Nicolas a distracted wave, then continued her pacing.

“Monsieur, I want to learn,” Albus said. He cleared away the smoke around him with a wave of his hand, a wandless wordless breath of wind that rustled his hair and robes. “I met a boy over the summer who spoke of immortality - power - but I believe there are other paths that lead the same way. And this is not only about me, but about her, too.”

“There is something off about that girl,” Nicolas murmured. “There is a shadow draped around her soul. It is slowly killing her. Yes, Albus, I can teach you.”

* * *

 

The colors of alchemy are black, white, yellow, and red. Transitional stages from state to state. Albus breathed and dreamed of the colors of them, swirling together to make the magnum opus. He wanted gold, but didn’t want gold; he thought of the way Gellert’s hair looked in the sun. He thought of the way Ariana used to smile, playing in their mother’s garden of marigolds.

 

* * *

 

Gellert visited Paris, five years later. He had the wand, the stone, and the cloak.

Albus was one of the world’s leading alchemists, teaching at Beauxbatons with Nicolas and Perenelle. Ariana was alive and stable, able to bend and sway the shadows at her back.

“Do you remember when I was sixteen, and I asked you, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore - will you change the world with me?” Gellert asked, with a wry smile. “I need you again.”

This time, Albus said yes.

 

**2.**

_Once upon a time,_ there was a boy named Albus Dumbledore.

Albus was brilliant wizard who was a genius in nearly every magical field. After he left Hogwarts, he met the equally brilliant, if not more brilliant, Gellert Grindelwald, but they eventually parted ways.

They decided to implement their plans separately. Gellert went back to Hungary; Albus stayed in Britain.

Quietly, and then not so quietly, they started recruiting. Gellert formed the Bridge Crossers, while Albus formed the Order of the Phoenix…

(“‘The Bridge Crossers’ is an awful name _._ This one is surely a story, not a prophecy. Who would name an organization like that?”

“It’s a reference to the story of the Three Brothers,” Gellert says, clearly insulted. “They defied Death by conjuring a bridge. Thus, the Bridge Crossers.”

“Hmm. I prefer the sound of the ‘Order of the Phoenix.’”

“Well, when you get your own secret society, the name is your choice,” Gellert says. “Anything is better than that idiot snake brat’s ‘Death Eaters.’”

“What--?”

“You’ll figure it out later.”)

 

* * *

 

There were banners of phoenixes hanging on the walls and ceilings of the British Ministry of Magic. Since they were, of course, magical tapestries, the phoenixes shifted: they were covered in roaring flames; they flapped their wings and squawked.

Gellert emerged from the Floo, his blue eyes bright with a wild, dazzling glee.

He was not alone. He had a wizard behind him chained with invisible magic.

“I found him,” he proclaimed triumphantly, addressing Albus, who was sitting behind a desk. “I’ve solved our little problem.”

‘Little problem’ - it was a teenager with dark hair and dark eyes that were almost a shade of red, and he was positively _seething_ with hatred. He struggled with the enchanted bonds, flickers of magic flashing from his palms before dissipating.

Albus was silent at first. He didn’t rise from his desk. He slowly turned over the quill in his palm and regarded the young man thoughtfully.

“You’re an imprudent lad,” Albus said, with a small smile. “You’ve caused quite a ruckus with those school friends of yours.”

“You’re an old fool,” the boy returned. “You talk of revolution and the greater good, but you do nothing of consequence. You treat the Muggles too lightly. You accept filthy _Mudbloods_ into wizarding society--”

“Remember what he calls himself?” Gellert interrupted, smirking. _“Lord._ He believes he’s a lord.”

“And as for the matter of filthy blood,” Albus said mildly, “you are a half-blood, are you not?”

The boy drew himself as tall as he could. Coldly, he said, “Will you kill me, _Minister,_ sir? Or are you relegating the task to your foreign dog?”

“Watch your tongue.”

The boy crumpled. Albus had the Elder Wand pointed straight in front of him.

It was interesting that he didn’t scream. Instead, the boy silently endured the pain for several seconds, and went limp when Albus cut off the Cruciatus. There were no tears in his eyes when he finally looked up.

Gellert laughed. He said, “You have no idea who we are and what we’ve built. We’ve made ourselves an empire - the Statute gone, the Muggles in their proper places, wizards and witches victorious. Your little group means _nothing_ to us.”

“Indeed,” Albus said, inclining his head. “Your efforts are admirable - Gellert and I once used to be in your place, after all - but there is nothing more to fight for. I will give you a minute to recover and a sherbet lemon, and then my - ah - ‘foreign dog’ will engage you in a fair duel.”

The dark haired boy struggled to his feet. In the glow of the phoenix banners, his eyes looked even more red.

* * *

 

(“Who was that boy?” Albus asks.

“I told you,” Gellert says. “You’ll figure it out.”)

* * *

 

**3.**

_Once upon a time,_ there was a boy named Albus Dumbledore.

Albus was brilliant wizard who was a genius in nearly every magical field. After he left Hogwarts, he met the equally brilliant, if not more brilliant, Gellert Grindelwald, but they eventually parted ways.

It was because of a split over ideology. Gellert advocated the ends justifying the means, but Albus felt a bit bitter over some of Gellert’s methods.

(“How difficult is it to say: ‘Albus believes that murder can be bad?’”

“No, it’s reasonable,” Gellert says, quietly. “Your father went to Azkaban for murder. It’s difficult to see the bigger picture, when you’ve always tried to differentiate yourself from him.”

“But that doesn’t mean I don’t understand. The world isn’t black and white. I still believe in our goals and in you.”

“You say that now. Let me finish, Albus.”)

They kept clashing over battlefields. It was a war, and they were on opposite sides…

 

* * *

 

Covered in sweat, blood, and muck, they threw spells at each other underneath the stormy sky.

They were like natural disasters unto themselves. A phoenix bracketed Albus, ushering in burning fire, complementing each and every flash of light that Albus hurled at Gellert. Albus’ dueling style was showy and rapid, and his hair and crimson robes was a red blur.

Gellert had adopted a more restrained, sharp style, one that was almost American. His arm ramrod straight, he let loose spell fire and brought up sturdy shields.

But it was a stiff style, and Albus was moving faster and faster, and he found an opening _here._ He bound Gellert with twirling vines that knocked the wand from his hand.

All it would take was a burst of green.

He dropped his wand arm downward.

Albus said, “Enough.”

He motioned to his phoenix, and they were surrounded in so much _red._

 

* * *

 

“I see,” Albus says, his eyebrow arched. “‘Surrounded in red.’ I suppose that has a poetic or artistic ring to it. Although it’s vague in nature.”

Albus leans over to look at Gellert lying in the grass beside him. Their faces are very close in proximity.

“So,” Gellert says, “did you guess? Which one is the prophecy?”

“I don’t know,” Albus admits. “I’d say--all of them feel like they have elements of something you’ve predicted, mixed in with elements of fiction. I don’t think there’s such thing as one true future.”

Albus darts a glance at the night sky and finds himself wishing he understood the stars like Gellert does. He is in love with this mad and beautiful golden-haired boy prophet of the summer, and he thinks that perhaps they can beat destiny.

And Gellert merely smiles and moves forward to kiss him.

 

* * *

 

 

**4.**

_Once upon a time,_ there was a boy named Albus Dumbledore.

Albus was brilliant wizard who was a genius in nearly every magical field. After he left Hogwarts, he met the equally brilliant, if not more brilliant, Gellert Grindelwald, but they eventually parted ways.

It ended with three boys dueling in a field, a little girl exploding in shadows and then in green.

* * *

 

Sometimes there are no prophecies. Sometimes they’re just stories we tell each other at night to feel better.


End file.
